Iasos (Edit 2.0, Mark, Knot, Rowens)

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Iasos (Edit 2.0)

This is a poem about Iasos,
of moss growing on stones, 
stones becoming walls
lashed by the rein of thunder gods, 
lying forgotten  in tall grass. The glass
like harbour at noon, 
broken  by rain, and rippled by the wind 
dragging a cloud canvas.

Two thousand years, more,
have lapsed into silence since
they sighted this shore, steer-
ing away from the pale of Pelias.

For them, cataracts gush 
from mouths of stone,
sailors who longed for a sea
rising and falling, 
like a serpent, or unravelling
like a skein of ancient ways, to be 

woven into tales, and tales into thought,
indivisible from our own
in poems about Iasos.


Previous versions:

Iasos (Edit 1.0, Mark)

This is a poem about Iasos, 
of moss growing on stones, 
stones becoming walls
sometime smitten by the rod of thunder gods, 
lying forgotten  in tall grass. The glass
like harbour at noon, 
broken  by rain, and rippled by the wind 
dragging a cloud canvas. 

We sheltered under ruined battlements, 
heard tinkling cowbells pass us by, 
the gurgling mouths of momentary waterfalls,
and through curtains of rain, the sea.

What did they achieve, in the ancient days
by sitting and dreaming of thunder gods?
Lightning on a knobby hill, and on the far side 
of the harbour quicksand, adventure enough for argonauts
to weave into tales, and tales into thought,
indivisible from our own
in poems about Iasos.

Original:

Iasos

This is a poem about Iasos,
of moss growing on stones,
stones becoming walls, smitten by the rod
of thunder gods, lying forgotten 
in tall grass. The glass
like harbour at noon, broken 
by rain, and rippled by the wind
dragging a cloud canvas.

We sheltered under ruined battlements,
beaming light
now beyond the nearest stars,
outdistancing alpha centauri,
heading towards Sirius,
coming back - who knows when -
to Iasos in the stardust.

And likewise in the microcosm
of petty existences -
for we too are made of star stuff - 
having travelled many roads
I come back to you again.